


in the space between your hearts

by cmartlover



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, River visits Trenzalore, also the beginning of their time on Darillium, sort of a love letter to the Doctor and River
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 20:25:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5757115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmartlover/pseuds/cmartlover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I have loved every moment of the time I’ve spent with you here. And I wouldn’t trade it for the universe. But sometimes, Sweetie, on those mornings when you wake up crying in my arms because of the nightmares, I can hardly bear it. Because I think of all those mornings you must’ve woken up like that alone.” River confesses, voice wavering. “And when you told me about Trenzalore…I just couldn’t bear the thought of you having to go through that for so long. It broke my heart. So I decided to do something about it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the space between your hearts

**Author's Note:**

> So I've had this story in my head since the Christmas Special, and finally I've gotten around to writing it. I confess, it is much longer than I initially expected, and it took me many days to complete it. 
> 
> I just love the idea of River going to visit 11 on Trenzalore, and I think those 24 years and the flexibility there (as Steven Moffat hinted) is the perfect timeframe for that to happen. 
> 
> I also kind of hate the idea that some are saying that 11 never loved River. I don't think that's true at all. So this fic definitely combats some of that.
> 
> It begins right where THORS left off.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this fic. It's the longest one-shot I've ever written.

His hearts squeeze fondly in that moment, ushering warmth through his entire body, as he gazes at his wife, basking in the glow of her presence. He can’t take his eyes off of her, utterly transfixed by those sparkling green eyes, those impossible, untamable curls glistening in the radiance of the setting sun. The way she tips her head down and purses her lips almost shyly, before smiling back up at him, leaning closer, closer, closer, closing her eyes. She’s pressed against him, and he relishes the feeling of that closeness. He’s never particularly sought it in this body, but with River it’s different. With River, he’s more calm and content and at ease than he’s been in thousands of years, and yet again, he’s reminded of the miracle that his wife is here, tucked into his shoulder, physically present, and not just in the space between his hearts where she’s always been since he lost her centuries ago.

As he weaves their fingers together, he keeps studying her intently, the sides of his mouth tipping up into a little smile, just for her. He feels the pulse of her wrist, the thump-thump against his own rapidly beating hearts—another reminder that she is real, she is here, she is alive.

They’re so close now, their noses nearly brushing, but even so, he can’t tear his eyes from her face. The breathtaking landscape around them and the sweet melody of the Towers pale in comparison to his Melody, his Song. And in that moment, everything else dims, and all he can see is his River, his wife, shining brighter than a million stars, far more beautiful and resplendent than the fairest sunset. He wishes he could stop time just so he could spend another few centuries cataloguing every inch of that precious face, those green orbs radiating such unspoken love and devotion, those pink lips curled into the sweetest of smiles that warms him all the way to his toes. So he stands there another moment, frozen, unmoving, utterly transfixed by her, unwilling to miss a beat.

Slowly, hesitantly, he brings his hand up to her temple, tucks a stray curl gently behind her ear, before gliding his fingertips over the contour of her face, down the bridge of that magnificent nose, around the smooth curve of her jaw. He cups her cheek, relishing the familiar sensation of her skin against his old, weathered hand.

Willing his eyes shut, he sighs, not missing her shudder beneath his touch, and leans in, nose to nose with her, even as his stomach drops, the nervousness fluttering in his belly like those butterflies humans mention in one of their silly little expressions. Maybe it’s not so silly after all, he thinks, hearts pounding in his ears, thump-thump-thump-thump, a rhythm that quickens as the seconds go by.

It’s been thousands of years since he last kissed his wife, his hands cradling her face as he tried to pour all the love and the longing and the sadness from his hearts into what he thought would be their final kiss. He wonders briefly if this new face will even remotely compare to his last one, or if it’ll just be another whopping disappointment as usual. This body has never been one for kissing, and he’s centuries out of practice, but as always, River is the exception, and he feels more like his younger self than he’s ever felt this go-round, as if regeneration hardly matters at all. He wants her first kiss with this him to be special, memorable, an unforgettable start to their happily ever after, but he worries, what if it isn’t good enough, what if he’s not—

His concerns dissipate as River’s deft fingers find their way to the back of his scalp, stroking the little hairs there, tugging softly, and releasing, and oh, Gallifrey, his brain stops working altogether. The last thing he hears before he loses all conscious thought is River’s quiet gasp as he tugs her face towards his, closing the distance between them. He doesn’t think much after that, just feels, his mouth gliding gently over hers, moving slowly, tenderly, longingly, her lips soft and pliant against his in response, patient and waiting, as he deepens the kiss, his lips dancing over hers in tandem with their steady heartbeats, their gentle persistence communicating everything he wants to say but can’t. It’s an apology—for every time he failed her, every time she felt alone, abandoned, every time he selfishly put his needs above her own. A declaration—of the unspeakable love that runs deep and swiftly though every crevice of his hearts like a River, the love that’s been there for centuries, refined and molded, but enduring, never changing, like the Singing Towers, burning just as intensely as ever, like the sun along the horizon. And a promise—to cherish her and hold her and listen to her and stay with her every day for the next 24 years of their lives, and more if he can help it—a slight tug of her bottom lip, a tender linger, as if to extend this moment for as long as he can, to commit it to memory, the taste of her breath, warm and sweet, just as he remembers it, the way their lips still fit together perfectly, the way it feels so right—the same, yet different, old, yet new, the reprise of a familiar cadence but in a slightly different arrangement, the chords swelling between them, rising and falling, pushing and pulling, clashing and resolving, woven together by the constant, harmonious rhythm of their hearts.

When he tastes the salt of her tears on his tongue, he only kisses her harder, more thoroughly, stroking his thumb along her cheekbone and breathing into her all the love and devotion and affection and fondness he’s kept locked away for the last thousand years or so, now allowing it to burst from the wellspring of his soul, a constant, overflowing supply.

And just like that, he slows it down again, every union of their mouths, long, drawn out, like he never wants to let go, as he mumbles her name against her lips, voice catching in the back of his throat when they finally part, their respiratory bypass systems simultaneously exhausted. He rests his forehead against hers, their noses still overlapping, eyes still folded shut, and it is only then, as her soft fingers feather his wrinkled face that he realizes—the tears are his.

Wrapping his arms around her delicate form, he buries his face in her shoulder, clinging to her tightly. And oh, his River, she knows, stroking his back and murmuring “Oh, my love,” as he sobs quietly, unable to control his tear ducts, the weight of having lost her for all those years hitting him full force, the pain and the regret and the guilt and the heartbreak he’d refused to acknowledge for so long culminating all at once. But she’s here and she’s River and she does love him and she’s holding him and she’s not just a dream anymore. With a shuddering breath, he carefully withdraws, if only just to be sure, his hands still clasped around her face as they had been all those years ago when she was a ghost. But she’s warm and living, smiling up at him through her own tears, a silent question in her eyes.

“Sweetie, how long has it been?”

A shaky smile is the best answer he can offer right now.

So instead he brushes his fingers against her face, wiping away those tears, and grasping her hand in his own and pressing soft kisses to her knuckles, as if to tell her not to worry. He knows she does anyway from the slight furrow of her brow.

“That was some kiss though, wasn’t it, dear?” the Doctor waggles his brows at her, deflecting, face contorting into some ridiculous expression, which in turn beckons a giggle from River. Oh, what a wonderful privilege to be the only person in the universe who can make the notorious River Song giggle. He’s managed it twice today, and he hopes he’ll be able to maintain the same effect for many years to come. If only to see that glorious, unabated smile that she’s giving him right now.

“Oh, I’d say so, Sweetie. Although…I think we could do even better.” She flirts, that familiar glint in her eyes. Oh, he’d missed her alright.

“Is that a challenge, River Song?”

“What do you think?” River laughs, smacking him playfully on the chest as he retaliates by capturing her hand in his again and bringing it back up to his lips.

“I think…that I’d be a rubbish husband if I didn’t make sure we eat first. Otherwise, we might not get round to it at all. Besides, I haven’t finished romancing you for the night, well, the first night of many, anyway. In fact, I’ve barely started. So, dinner?” Flicking out his sonic from his jacket pocket, he twirls his hand, ushering two little flames from the candles at their table. “By candlelight? With the most amazing view in twelve galaxies all to ourselves? Just the two of us? What do you say, wife?”

“Yes.” She mumbles, turning to peck him on the lips, eyes full of mirth and thankfulness as she stares back at him. Pressing his hand to the small of her back, the Doctor gently leads her to her seat, grinning from ear to ear, the catharsis of the previous moment all but forgotten, and the answer to her first question still left hanging between them.

It isn’t until hours later, when they’re in each other’s arms again after centuries apart, caught between kisses and tears that he whispers a broken “Over 1,000 years,” into her untamable curls.

He hears River’s breath hitch, feels her fingers sift through his hair and her hands pull him closer, till they’re heartbeat upon heartbeat, as if to say she understands.

But he knows better. She doesn’t. She can’t possibly. Not yet anyway.

 

* * *

 

Waking up in her husband’s arms every morning—if one can even call it that—is a luxury she’d never thought she’d have.

So far it’s been pure bliss, and of all the words to describe her complicated and often painful life, she never imagined she’d be able to use that one. Yet here he is, the man she loves, at her side, cradling her firmly to his chest like he’s afraid she might slip away if he lets go even for a second. She feels warm and safe and loved and _whole._

But there are those mornings, like that one only three days into their happy-ever-after, when she wakes up to him sobbing loudly into her shoulder, voice gruff and Scottish, low and depressed as he groans her name over and over again, “River, River, River,” his hands pawing at her pillow like he’s delirious, in some kind of state. Very quickly, she recognizes the signs; it’s not as if she hasn’t dealt with this before, albeit when he was in a different body. He’s having a rather terrible nightmare, one that she seems to be the subject of.

“Sweetie, it’s okay, it’s me, it’s River. I’m right here, darling. You’re only dreaming, my love.” She strokes his hair, trying to coax him out of it. “Please, Doctor, just listen to my voice, yes, yes, that’s it. Now come towards the sound of my voice and open your eyes. Sweetie—”

“No,” he moans, now clawing at her hair. “Not real. Impossible. You can’t be here. No matter how much I wish—”

She knows he’s referring to her, and her heart tears a little more.

“Sweetie, wake up!” nudging him forcefully, she turns, watching as those icy blue eyes pop open, his body still trembling next to her.

He looks at her like a lost little boy, sad, confused, frightened.

“Riv-er?” his voice quivers, the strangled noise breaking something inside her.

“I’m right here, my love.” Mustering a smile, she brings his hand to rest on her cheek, not missing the mixture of relief and realization in his eyes. “See?”

“Right.” He nods, unable to meet her gaze, face flushed with embarrassment and something else.

“We’re on Darillium, in our bedroom in the TARDIS. Do you remember now?” she prods gently, willing him to look back up at her. His head tilts briefly, as he registers the familiar bed, the room around them, the clothing draped haphazardly on the floor. And remembers.

“You mean, I wasn’t just dreaming again?”

_Again?_

She wonders just how many times he’s dreamt of her in the centuries since he’s last seen her.

The way he sniffles, “I’m sorry,” into her hair only confirms her worst fears.

 

* * *

 

He does tell her eventually. Of course he does. She’s his wife after all, and they’re long past keeping unnecessary secrets. Although there is still that haunting look in his eyes that has always been there, reminding her of the one spoiler left looming over them—her fate. He doesn’t tell her that. Never that. He can’t.

So he tells her everything else. Gallifrey, and the forgotten friend who helped him avert the biggest mistake of his life and save it.

“Oh, Sweetie, that’s wonderful…” she gasps in surprise, joy swelling in her heart with the knowledge that he doesn’t have to carry the guilt anymore, that his home is still out there, that he’s not the last—but his faltering smile suggests an unhappy ending to that story. “But your _home_ —”

“Is right here. With you.” He places their joined hands over his hearts, the intensity of his gaze melting her insides and rendering her speechless. She doesn’t ask any more questions that night.

 

* * *

 

He tells her the story of his new body. Of the dreaded Trenzalore from the prophecy she knows all too well, from those nights when he confessed his fears and she consoled him. The question, and the crack from her mother’s bedroom wall, and the Time Lords, calling, terrifying every one of his enemies and generating such fear that a rogue organization would engineer a psychopath just to keep him from speaking his name and letting those feared creatures back into the universe. Funny how that very psychopath became the one person he could ever share that secret with.

“Kovarian’s chapter of the Silence failed rather spectacularly. They stole you away from your parents, brainwashed you to kill me so I would never reach Trenzalore. But as it turned out, I married you, and you saved me time and time again. In the end, they ensured the very thing they went to such lengths to prevent. I would’ve never made it to Trenzalore alive without you, dear.”

He twirls a curl around his finger, before releasing it, his eyes boring into hers.

“Well, you know me. Never was one for doing as I’m told.”

“Nor was I. No wonder we ended up together.” He chuckles, nose brushing hers as he breathes, “My bespoke psychopath.” The tenderness in his voice makes her heart ache, echoing words from long, long ago, spoken with the same fondness, by the same man with a different face, back when everything was just beginning, when she didn’t know—

She frowns, remembering, but he kisses it away, pulling her close to his hearts, as if he knows the next bit of the story is going to be the hardest to hear.

But she listens anyway. Listens to his voice crack as he recalls the centuries spent protecting that little town called Christmas, centuries upon centuries of generations coming and going, people dying all around him, while he endured.

Alone.

Her eyes sting as he recounts the tale, her heart lurching at the thought of that him, old and tired and withered and lonely, years of death and destruction weaving the many years together, but never changing his desire to stay, to protect.

“I suppose I got what I deserved. After years of running from everything, my problems, my pain, my guilt, the people I cared about, _you_ , I finally had to stay. For a thousand years, for the rest of my life, I had to pay for my mistakes. I had to stop running, stop pretending I was this young man pouncing about the universe like it was my plaything, when in reality, I was older than I’d ever been, weary, depressed, lonely. Surviving everyone I ever cared about. Watching as generations of people died over and over again.”

He maintains a straight face, but as ever, it doesn’t fool her for a second. She can see the despair and the brokenness he tries to hide, the way it flickers in his eyes, however quickly. Something recoils in her stomach, like a punch to the gut, the truth of those thousand years slapping her in the face.

“Sweetie—”

“Those years changed me long before regeneration did. By the end of it, I was a different man. Regeneration just magnified the changes that had already taken root. The man I was had died long before that. He died when he lost his family.” His eyes are watering now, and he can barely look at her, his quiet admission left to sink in.

“My parents.” She realizes, biting her lip, the pain of her own loss still fresh.

“And _you._ ” He chokes out, just above a whisper, the guilt and sorrow so evident from his crinkled eyebrows and trembling mouth. “When you left, a part of me, the man I was, died. I know it was my own fault. I was too consumed with my own pain to be of any help to you. I said those terrible, callous things that made you think that I never—that I didn’t… I was a failure of a husband, and I knew it, and I had to live with that knowledge for the rest of my life. Just as well that I had to own up to my mistakes, to stay in one place for centuries, mostly alone, with everything perishing around me. I bloody well deserved it!”

His voice drips with self-loathing, shattering any resolve she has to just simply sit back and listen any longer.

“Don’t you dare!” She cries, anger boiling up inside, tears streaming down her cheeks as she fights the ever-pressing urge to slap him.

“But it’s true, River. You know it is. I treated you so terribly you thought I never—”

“Yes, you did. But you were hurt, and I was hurt, and both of us said and did things we regret. But don’t you think for a second Doctor that I would’ve ever wished any of that on you! One thousand years, Doctor…” the flaming rage soon dissipates into something else, guilt, sadness, regret, she doesn’t know. “I wish—I wish…I could’ve been there for you.”

“You were there. In my hearts, always.” He promises, voice breaking as he presses his finger to the corner of her eye, catching a tear there. “I’m so sorry, River. For everything.” In that moment, with his old eyes wet and regretful, his chin quivering, she thinks he looks so much like his last face it nearly kills her.

“Sweetie, I know.” She lets out a nervous laugh. “And I _forgive_ you. Always and completely. You don’t have to hold onto that guilt any longer, my love.”

“But—”

“And I’m sorry too.” Releasing a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, River meets his crinkled brow and confused stare. “Oh, Sweetie. You weren’t the only one at fault. I wouldn’t let you see the damage, see my pain. You couldn’t have helped me even if you wanted to because I wouldn’t have allowed it. I was afraid…afraid that if you saw that you’d…” Her jaw flexes and she looks down. “Leave me.” She admits ever so quietly, almost surprised she’s actually said the words out loud. “So I left you first. And I knew our time was growing short, and I wasn’t sure you wanted anything to do with me, so I distracted myself. Did things I shouldn’t have. I was just as selfish as you, Doctor, so stop acting like I’m a saint and you’re the only one who’s ever done anything wrong because that’s not how marriage works. It works both ways, my love.”

“But I hurt you…” He flashes her that kicked-puppy expression that she remembers all too well, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He’s sorry, and she knows it, and she forgives him, and she wishes she could just make him understand.

“Yes. You did. But these past few weeks, you’ve given me more joy that I ever thought possible. And I understand things better now. I know that what felt like rejection when you wouldn’t take me here before wasn’t really that at all. You were afraid of losing me, just as I was afraid of losing you. And we both hurt each other because of that. But the point is, we’re here now, together, and it’s wonderful and amazing, and I just wish you would stop wallowing in that guilt and let it go! Seeing you so burdened by it hurts me just as much as what you did to make you feel guilty, so please, Doctor, get it through your thick skull that I’m not holding it against you anymore. I forgive you.”

Nodding, he sniffles, body rigid as she pulls him into a fierce embrace, arms folding around his shaking form.

“Thank you.” It’s so soft and broken, but honest and raw, and she hears him. “And for the record, you’re forgiven too. Always and completely forgiven,” he echoes the words from their wedding day, his hand circling her back, fondly, tenderly.

“Now why don’t you tell me the rest of the story?”

So he does.

He tells her of the long, hard days fighting his enemies finally catching up with him till he became the old, tired man he always had been, white-haired and wrinkly, dying from old age. Somehow the image of her young, baby-faced, bowtie-wearing husband reduced to that state is more painful that she would ever admit.

He tells her of his acceptance of death, his determination to face it alone. And of his friend, a friend he only remembers by name, more determined still, convincing the Time Lords to grant him a new regeneration cycle, just as his ailing body had nearly failed, after he’d long since given up hope. He speaks of the memory of the regeneration energy flooding his body and practically decimating the town with its power.

“With the new cycle, it was taking a bit longer than usual. My body reset temporarily. I looked young again, but I felt so much older. Different. I knew the old me was minutes from being gone forever. I tried to pass the time before the inevitable…”

“Let me guess, fish fingers and custard?” she smiles sadly, remembering his younger self’s fondness and the many times he’d shared it with her.

“Of course.”  He nods stiffly. “In my last moments, I envisioned your mother as a little girl, just as she’d been all those years ago when I crashed into her garden with that face fresh-on. And just like that, she was gone. A distant memory. I vowed never to forget one line of my life in that body, the longest body I’d ever been in. Not one day. I swore. And just as I turned, I saw her again, my Amelia Pond. Only she was older, the way she’d been the last time I saw her. She said, ‘Raggedy Man, Goodnight.’ And vanished.” His face crinkles into a little smile. “It was my time. So I accepted it. I didn’t protest or moan at the unfairness as my last body had. And in my last moments as him, I stripped off my bowtie, making way for the new me, and letting go of the old. I thought of all it meant and why I’d kept wearing it for so long. Because it reminded me of my wedding day. Standing on top of a pyramid with the universe collapsing around me. And you, young and beautiful, staring at me with more love in your eyes than I ever deserved.  That was the memory I clung to. You were my last thought, River.” The earnestness of that declaration steals her breath away, and she stifles a sob, caught in the intensity of those soft eyes, staring at her with the same love they always have, she realizes.

And understands.

 

* * *

 

So the next time she wakes to him crying her name desperately in sleep, she can’t help but imagine him, still older and wary but with a different face, tossing about on a cold and lonely bed, caught in the same nightmare, but with no one to comfort him. And she pictures it again, over and over, every time he dreamt of her on Trenzalore for all those years and woke up to the same empty bed, alone and hopeless. With every replay of the scene, her heart feels heavier and heavier, the pain digging into her side even more until it hurts so much she is nauseous with grief and decides, right then and there, that she is going to do something about it.

For the next few afternoons while he’s off tinkering with something that’s gone wrong in their cozy little house on Darillium, she spends her time researching, pouring over all historical accounts about the Siege of Trenzalore and the sealing of the planet. She uses the TARDIS’ archives when she’s exhausted every other available resource, and soon enough she finds all the information she needs. Date, coordinates. Along with an old Vortex Manipulator she must’ve left on the TARDIS at some point or another while on one of her secret excursions.

So one morning, when he’s peacefully asleep, his face calm and content, she extricates herself carefully from his arms, before pressing a light kiss to his lips, enough to stir but not wake him. And oh, the way his mouth creases into a tiny sleep-smile is nearly her undoing. Part of her doesn’t want to leave this him, the one who’s committed to stay by her side, not even when she knows she’ll be back a second later from his perspective, and he probably won’t even notice she’s been gone. At least that’s what she hopes.

“I’ll be back soon, my love. I promise.” She whispers faintly, still not loud enough to disturb him from his fitful sleep.

Without stealing another glance back at her snoozing husband, River reminds herself of those mornings he’s woke up distraught and afraid and sad and disbelieving, and remembers why she’s doing this. For him.

When she enters the TARDIS minutes later, she finds her Vortex Manipulator waiting on the console and quickly straps it to her wrist, not willing to waste any more time, the coordinates already set.

“I sure hope this works.” She mumbles, and her mother hums in response, as if to say, _yes, my Child, I remember_.

With a zap, she whizzes off, and a second later finds herself still standing in the console room, although it’s changed. The lighting is bluer, there are no bookshelves to explore or roundels to store her drinks, but the most obvious difference is the dim lighting and faint dusting all around her, her mother’s calming hum so quiet it’s nearly undetectable, as if she reeks of disuse.

“Oh, mother, what has he done to you this time?” stroking her hand along the control panel, she watches the room light up, that familiar hum growing steadily louder. “Yes, it’s me. Lovely to see you too, although I suppose you expected me. I can’t stay long, or he’ll notice I’ve been here. So let’s keep my little visit a secret between us, eh?”

Not lingering for too long, she steps out onto the snowy planet he’s told her so much about, clutching the hoodie she’d nicked while he was sleeping, fighting off the cold that affects her even with her part-Time Lord biology.

Sucking in a breath, she looks up, immediately recognizing the clock tower where he lived for hundreds of years protecting this little town.

For once, the town is quiet, a sharp contrast to most nights during the siege, she knows. The TARDIS had helped her select this specific night for a reason, some 800 years after he arrived, and she’s starting to see why.

As she begins climbing the steps of the clock tower, the soft, little snowflakes catch in her hair, some even melting on her face. She scans the area once more, as if to check for any of the Doctor’s enemies lurking about, only to be met by nothing but the wind blowing quietly in the distance.

Mustering her courage, River proceeds slowly up a spiral staircase, her hand clutching the railing and her heart beating more furiously in her chest. She’s planned this trip out to the last detail, and yet, when actually faced with the prospect of seeing her husband like this, she’s suddenly terrified.

Nevertheless, she forces herself to the top, turning the corner into his workshop, and immediately noticing the papers of children’s drawings filling the walls. Sighing, she runs her fingers along the pictures, recognizing too many scenes to count, crayon-sketched images of her mother, with bright red hair, and her father, with his big nose, and her husband, in his old tweed and bowtie. Her heart catches in her throat when she spots one of herself, curly hair impossible to miss as ever, and the Doctor, with his long, tousled hair, on their wedding day, a bowtie joining their hands together. She realizes that he must’ve told that story to the children in this town, along with many other stories of adventures with her parents and her, she muses as she spots another image of herself in her battle dress with a gun strapped to her belt. Her heart softens as she ponders the stories he must have told of her. For all the guilt he carried, at least he still remembered her fondly.

It’s then that she sees him—or rather hears him first, he’s humming a little tune like he would sometimes do on those nights when she couldn’t sleep, and he’d sing one of those Gallifreyan melodies she grew to love.

Even from behind, she notes the tell-tale signs of age, his grey hair dotted with white and no sign of his typical brown. He’s leaning forward on a cane, working on some children’s contraption, and she spots his hand, wrinkled with age, even more so than his current body’s. A sheen of light glistens around his lanky silhouette, radiating from the crack in front of him, the crack from her mother’s bedroom wall, the crack from which the Time Lords are now calling.

After another cautious step forward on her part, he pauses, finally noticing another presence behind him. Good, she’d rather not startle him into a literal hearts attack that might actually kill him this time.

“Hello?” he starts, voice lower and gruffer than she remembers. “Barnable is that you? How many times have I told you not to sneak up on me like—”

“Hello Sweetie.”

“—that.” He finishes, just barely, his green eyes popping open as his mouth hangs wide. His once-young face is now covered in lines, along his mouth, his forehead, even the corners of his eyes. Right now, his brow is particularly furrowed in concentration, but all she sees is the man beneath the face, the man she has loved for centuries, staring back at her with a mixture of awe, confusion, disbelief, and regret, somehow all at the same time. “Now you’re a sight for sore eyes.” He breathes out slowly, voice full of steady conviction, even as her mother’s reading glasses topple from his nose. His mouth crinkles at the edges, laughter lines beautifully visible as he breaks into that little fond smile that always leaves her feeling weak in the knees.

“Thank you, Sweetie.” She giggles, flushing a bit at that.

And watches the bright light in his eyes fade so quickly it nearly knocks the wind out of her.

“Sweetie?”

He sighs, running a wrinkled hand over his face.

“Every time.” Shaking his head, he leans on his cane for support, eyes lidded in disappointment, his expression one of exasperated self-loathing. “You’re not really here.” He laughs, but it’s hollow, empty, sad.

“And how do you know that?”

“Because you _can’t_ be.” The swell of emotion in those words, spoken so softly, so desperately, renders her speechless. “It’s impossible. This planet’s been sealed off, not even you could break through.”

“Oh, Sweetie, you and I both know I’m just that good.” She tries to flash him one of her characteristic smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. And quite so.

“Ha.” His eyes flutter shut just for a moment, as if he’s remembering, his mouth tipping up just a bit. “My beautiful, amazing, brilliant wife. That’s probably exactly what you’d say. But the truth is River, as much as I wish you were here, as real as you may seem right now, I know I’m just a senile old man longing for the wife I’ll never see again, no matter how much I want to. No matter how much I wish I could change things. The truth remains; I lost you centuries ago, dear.” He admits, voice tinged with sorrow.

“Then how can I be here?” River asks, crouching down in front of him, her hand finding his weathered one.

“Because. You are always here to me, River. In here.” Pressing a wet kiss to her knuckles, he brings their joined hands to rest between his beating hearts. Shivering, River swallows, her own heart stuttering at the intensity of his gaze, those shimmering green eyes filled with such devotion, all for her. “But that doesn’t make you any more real, I’m afraid. I must be dreaming again. Or else I have finally grown so old I’m seeing hallucinations.”

“Are you terribly sure about that, my love? Last I checked, we’re in a truth field. Which means we can’t lie to each other. Everything I say must be true then. So… I’m really here, Sweetie.” Her fingers brush his pale, wrinkly cheek just enough. “And even if I was just a dream, does it really matter? I’m here now, Sweetie. As real as ever.”

“But…”

“Please, Doctor.” She pleads, voice trembling as she gives him a wobbly smile. “I did come all the way here. Humor me, why don’t you? Just for tonight.” Squeezing his hand, she brings it to her own lips this time, feeling him shudder as she lingers for a moment, her eyes dancing and hopeful.

“Oh, my River.” He softens, drawing each syllable out with a perfect mixture of fondness and exasperation. “You know I’ve never been able to say no to those eyes.” Melting at her touch, he finally relaxes, his finger catching a stray curl. “Or that hair. Or that smile. Or any of it.”

“That’s because you’re a sentimental idiot, my love.”

“Only when it comes to you, dear.” Gazing at her with that pure, unwavering affection that sends tingles down her spine, the Doctor gives her that lopsided grin she loves and bops her nose. When River’s smile brightens, he looks faintly flushed, his hand slowly detaching from hers to scratch his cheek. “Speaking of which, since you came all the way here, or so you say, what kind of rubbish husband would I be if I didn’t offer you tea?” Slightly nervous all of a sudden, he shuffles awkwardly from his chair, attempting to balance on his cane, but not quite managing, his legs and arms a bit shaky before he finally stands more upright.  

Concerned, River quickly links their arms together, hand steady on his back even as he huffs, shoeing her away.

“No, no, I’m fine. I can manage. Don’t need you fretting over me right now, dear. I’ll just pop off to the kitchen and make us some tea. Will only take a tic.” The sight of him walking about stiff and uncomfortable, cane propped out in front of him, his back arched over and face contorting in silent pain, is almost unbearable.

“Sweetie, why don’t you just—” She starts, hovering closely behind him.

“I told you, River, I’m _fine_. I’m perfectly capable of fetching my wife a cup of tea—”

“But maybe it would just be easier if I—”

“No! I may look old, but I promise, I’m not entirely useless. Just let me do this one thing for you, _please_ …” Hanging on to that last word, he looks at her pleadingly, silently begging, the sudden openness of his expression giving away the insecurity he tries to mask.

“Fine. But the moment I hear anything go wrong, I will be at your side, ready to help, and you had better not refuse me.”

“Don’t worry, dear, I can manage a little cup of tea, you’ll see. Now why don’t you stay here and look around for a few minutes if you like. I’ll be back in a mo.” He winks, and turns around, stubbornly pushing forward and stepping up the stairs, his cane shaking with every movement.

Though it physically hurts her to see him struggling with such a simple task, she resists the urge to follow him, knowing that he’s too stubborn accept her help, and they’ll probably just end up having a pointless row anyway.

So she wanders, exploring the various little trinkets and toys that are scattered about the room along with all those children’s drawings she noticed earlier. Her fingers reach the table beside her husband’s chair, skirting across the pile of tools, a battered wooden hammer and a familiar sonic screwdriver amongst them, and resting on a tiny train car that he’s been fixing up. Biting back a smile, River pictures the Doctor, old and battered, crouched in his seat, hands moving deftly over the toy for hours and hours until it’s just right. Her heart warms at the thought of him handing it to some little boy in the town, the delight glowing in his eyes as the child beams and captures him in a tight hug, which the Doctor eagerly returns. She imagines him in another scenario, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his hands gesturing emphatically, his features molding into some ridiculous expression as he tells his story, eliciting a fit of giggles from the children gathered around him, a few perched on his lap and the others nestled in his side, soaking up every single word like he’s Father Christmas.

The vague heaviness in her chest festers and grows, seeping into her veins and gnawing at her heart until she can’t bear it any longer. A tear trickles down her cheek, and she briefly wonders why the thought of the Doctor and children always leaves her with a faint sense of melancholy.

(Deep down, she knows exactly why; but then again, she’s lived far too long to allow herself to dwell on the could-have-beens or what-ifs.)

 

* * *

 

When she hears the completely unsurprising clatter of metal from upstairs, followed by a series of frustrated groans, River bolts up the spiral staircase, hands clenching the railing in irritation.

“Sweetie, are you quite all right?” she yells, her voice echoing through the space above her.

“Yes, yes of course. Absolutely fine, dear. Almost done. I’ll only be another second, just don’t come in yet.”

“How long does it take you to make two cups of tea these days? It’s been at least 15 minutes, what could you possibly be doing up there for tha—

“Just one more second, I promise.”

“Darling, if I come up to find you’ve dropped the kettle on the ground, tripped over it, and broken your leg, I’m going to be very, very…”

“…cross.” She finishes, trudging through the door whether he likes it or not, only to find the kitchen strangely empty. “Sweetie?”

“Just up the stairs, River.”

Vainly hoping he hasn’t managed to injure himself in the time he’s been wasting, River treks up the last set of steps to what she guesses must be the top of the clock tower.

“Honestly, Doctor, if tea is all you wanted, would it have killed you to just let me—”

Her heart leaps at the unexpected scene in front of her, the Doctor leant behind one of two wooden chairs at a small, rather unassuming table, the pair of plainly lit candles placed on top illuminating a tray of tea, two folded napkins, and two plates of some sort of food she doesn’t recognize, no hang on, she does—three fish fingers and a bowl of custard?

“Surprise!” he exclaims, flapping his arms dramatically as his forehead crinkles with more lines than she’s ever seen on it, his grey-white thinning hair mussed back in a style sort of reminiscent of the way he used to wear it this go-round, only it doesn’t quite work anymore, not that it really matters to her. Even with his ridiculous hair and pale-pink skin creased with age, he’s still the most beautiful man she’s ever known.

However, the façade of youthful enthusiasm fades quickly, revealing the vulnerability and weariness underneath as he deflates.

“Sweetie?”

“Sorry.” He shakes his head, huffing out a bitter laugh. “I just…I thought maybe you might like…but it was stupid. A rubbish idea.”

“No, no, not at all.” Heart wrenching at the sight of him so crushed in spirit, so dejected, River bites back the tears threatening to pool in her eyes. “Oh you daft old man. I love it.” Her bottom lip trembles as she steals another glance at her husband and his best attempt at a romantic candlelit dinner, and only just then does she notice the sky above them, glittering with millions and millions of stars, far more than could be encompassed in an earth sky, and a rare vision for such a snowy town, she knows. “This is wonderful, Sweetie.”

She shivers, struck by her husband’s deeply rooted kindness, his willingness to make her feel special despite his limited resources.

“Are you cold?” He finally asks, shuffling nervously, removing his purple tweed jacket without a second thought and draping it around her shoulders.

“But won’t you be cold, Sweetie?” She hesitates, doubtful that a thin dress shirt is going to be much protection from the biting wind, especially given the state of his body. “Doctor, I can’t—”

“Just take it, River. _Please._ ”

“Alright. If you insist. Why don’t we sit down and eat?”

“Right.” He mutters, pulling out her chair for her like a proper gentleman and fumbling into his own, looking sheepish.

“So,” her eyelashes flutter at him. “Tell me, Doctor, how did you manage to find fish fingers and custard out here?”

“I have a supplier.” Waggling his practically non-existent brows, the Doctor pulls a silly face for her sake.

“But just three? Last I remember, you used to eat a whole package of them in one sitting. Often several times a week.”

“What can I say? I’m not exactly the man I used to be. And truth be told, this is all the food I have left for the month.” His voice falls to a whisper, and he doesn’t meet her eyes.

“You’re going to use the rest of your food up on me?”

“Well, I just thought…maybe we could share it, or something?” Bless, his eyes are so full of desperation, so hungry for her approval, her acceptance. Why can’t he just see…

Reaching across the table for his hand, River grasps it firmly, squeezing in silent appreciation and refusing to let go.

“Thank you.” Her mouth breaks into a genuine smile, her eyes glistening in the starlight.

“How can you even look at me like that?” He rasps in disbelief, his own eyes watering.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…I’m not your young, handsome husband anymore. I’m all old and wrinkly, River. Weathered by time. My body’s finally wearing out. There’s nothing…remarkable or impressive about me. I’m just a weary old man, full of regret and guilt and self-loathing. I’m so old and pathetic I can’t even manage to make you a proper dinner. By now, the tea’s probably cold, and a few fish fingers hardly suffices as a meal. Not that one little rubbish attempt at a date could ever even remotely make up for how awfully I treated you, River. I was stupid and selfish and cowardly. All you wanted was for me to take you to the Singing Towers. You’d been begging me for years, and finally I gave in, if only to see you smile one more time. You hadn’t properly smiled since losing your parents. And neither had I for that matter. I thought you at least deserved a happy night, something special, but then, when we’d nearly gotten there, I just couldn’t bring myself to take you. I tried, I really did. I told myself I was going to be brave for you. Because you deserved that. But when it got down to it…I just…I couldn’t. Losing Amy and Rory was hard enough, but losing _you_ …I didn’t think I could survive it. I hardly did, River. And of course, you didn’t know, you didn’t understand, you thought I was rejecting you. You thought that…I never loved you. But you were wrong, River, so very, very wrong. And I was desperate, and depressed, and terrified, and I said things, horrible things, that I didn’t mean. I lied because I would’ve done anything just to have a few more precious hours with you. In the end, I suppose, everything I did to try to save our time just sucked it away. You left me, and somehow I knew, I just knew that it was over. I would never see you again. For all I’d done to hold onto you, I just ended up squandering the chance to give you the night you always deserved. The night that, I had told myself, I would finally tell you, I would finally say those three little words I could never manage to say, even though they’d always been true. I felt so guilty. I wished I could go back and change things. Be the husband you deserved. But I failed you. Completely. Totally. I wasted beautiful moments with you that I will never get back. I couldn’t even bear to say goodbye to you because it hurt too much.” His chin quivers, his eyes tortured, dark and set, tears streaming down his skin, wrought by age and time. “I know you can’t really be here, because if you were, and I’d done that to you, you could never look at me the way you’re looking at me now. That’s how I know you’re just a dream, River.”

Pieces of her heart seem to tear more and more with every word, every declaration, as she sees just how much the guilt had ripped him apart. How hopeless and regretful and sorry he was, how he truly believed that after everything he’d done, every selfish mistake he’d ever made, that she could never possibly love him. She thinks of her Doctor in the future, of the burden that has finally been lifted off his shoulders, of the second chance he’d never thought he’d have, and understands more than ever why, after all this time, he still mistakes her for a dream, not daring to believe that she could ever be anything else, after so many years of being haunted by the guilt of his past.

But as ever, he is wrong, so very, very wrong.

And now, in this moment, staring at the face of the man she married all those years ago, she sees herself reflected in those teary eyes. His insecurity is her insecurity, his vulnerability is her vulnerability, his suffering is her suffering. He doesn’t know how she could ever love him, just as she doesn’t know how he could ever love her. They are one and the same. And yet they are different. They are two individuals, unique and complicated and flawed, separated by time and by space and by years, and the universe is terribly, terribly unfair, always working against them. But they are one, in flesh, in spirit, in love. They are married at every point in time and space, bound by the cords of love, despite being worlds apart. And finally, River understands. And loves him impossibly more.

“Oh, my love. You still don’t understand do you?” Running her fingertips over the creases of his cheek, and up to the corners of his eyes, soaking in the wetness there, wiping it away, she watches him, heart breaking at the confusion and fear and doubt in those tired eyes. “Yes, we’ve both hurt each other at times, Doctor, but that was always inevitable. A relationship like ours, meeting out of order, having to lie, keeping secrets we can never tell, holding in that pain to hide it from each other, saying things we don’t mean in anger, it was bound to shatter both of us in some way. I know I’ve hurt you just as you’ve hurt me. I even murdered you, back when I had no idea what we were, who you were to me, or who I was to you. And yet you still forgave me. I can see now how much I hurt you by leaving you after Manhattan. And yet, here you are, after all these years, centuries upon centuries, and you’re still looking at me like that. You’ve tried to give me a proper date, even though you don’t have much here. This is all the food you have left, and you want to share it with me. Tell me, my love, after all the pain I’ve caused you, after all the guilt you still hold onto, why would you do that for me?” Her eyes sting even as she asks the question, and she strokes his face, feeling him melt beneath her touch, watching his eyes fill with the same soft affection that she’d recognized in them even before he said, “Hello Sweetie.”

She already knows the answer of course.

He’s said it many times over the years, with a look, a gesture, a touch. And yet he’s never properly said the words. Maybe that’s why she doubted him. Or maybe it’s just the way of their lives, seeing so many versions of him who don’t know her, don’t want anything to do with her. Maybe she finally wondered why he kept running, why he couldn’t just do this one thing for her, why he always looked at her with regret in his eyes, why he yelled and screamed, directing all his pent up rage at her, why he said those terrible things, even when she knew they were probably lies. Why she let herself believe him.

His brow crinkles now, the warmth of those impossible, old eyes washing over her, deep into her soul. She knows. And thinks it’s enough.

But then he takes her hand, pressing it into his wrinkly skin, and sighs, eyes folding shut for a moment, before he meets her gaze straight on, the faintest smile tugging at his cheeks.

“Because I love you, River.” He whispers softly, eyes wet and earnest before they widen in surprise, as he realizes what he’s just said. And laughs. A proper, carefree laugh, like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. “I never thought those words would ever come so easily. It must be the truth field. Makes me say what I’m really feeling. No more skirting around it now, I suppose. I love you, River.” He repeats, just as sure as the first time, his hand moving back to her face, to catch the tears there. “I always knew I would, even from the moment I met you. And I knew that I would lose you just the same, because I always lost everyone. So I ran. I fought, and I kicked, and I screamed. But you kept popping up in my life no matter how far or fast I ran, with a smirk on your lips and trouble at your heels, and I could never resist trouble. I still tried to run, but in the end I realized I’d been running in the opposite direction, straight to you. And before I knew it, I was drowning, swept into the ferocity and the beauty and the madness and the allure of your tide. By the time I realized what had happened, why the sight or even just the thought of you made me feel warm and tingly, why your kiss left me breathless, my hearts burning at your touch, why I didn’t mind you dragging me into things at all, why I embraced it, why everything was more exciting, more dangerous, more wonderful, and more beautiful when I was with you, it was too late. I didn’t even know who you were, but I knew deep down, much as I wouldn’t dare to admit it, that I was in love with you. I didn’t even think about it, I didn’t see it coming, it just happened because it was always going to. Because who else was I going to fall in love with? But the woman who could look into my eyes and see into my soul, know everything dark that lurks there, and still smile at me like I was worth something.” He croaks, voice wobbling, before he continues. “I tried to show you, so many times. Why do you think I married you? Not because I had to, I didn’t. But because I couldn’t bear the thought of you, so young and full of love, spending your days in prison for a murder you didn’t commit, being the woman who killed me, when I saw you as so much more. My friend, my confidante, my equal. And I loved you. So of course I married you, how could I not? I’d already given you my hearts, so I gave you myself. And we ran together, hand in hand, husband and wife. I tried to show you in every way I could think of, taking you on big, extravagant dates, dressing up for you, coming when you called, holding you close, kissing you with everything I had. I thought you had to know. But I was stupid, River. I should’ve told you every day. Should’ve made sure there was never a doubt in your mind. I’m sorry, River.”

“Sweetie, I know.” She sniffles, thumb brushing his cheek. Smiling through her tears, amazed by the honesty and the conviction in his words, she draws him closer. “Do you remember what you told me on our wedding day, when I was forced to shoot you at Lake Silencio?”

“I said you were forgiven. Always and completely.”

“Then why, my love, would you ever think I wouldn’t do the same for you?” Their faces are only inches apart now, and she watches his eyes flicker, a twinge of hope written across his features. “I love you, Sweetie. You know it’s true. You’ve always known.” The words fall from her lips effortlessly, the truth field numbing her mind and softening her defenses.

“But you can’t be here.” He stutters, eyes already lost in hers, breath hot against her skin, as he leans into her touch. “How can you be here?”

“Because I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you here cold and alone and miserable for all these years. I had to come, just this once. So that I could give you one night of joy and hope and love. Just as you’ve given me so many times. Even now.” She blushes, glancing down at the dinner he’d lovingly prepared for her, the flames of the two candles still burning brightly, amidst the darkness and despair of the night and the years and the pain. Her eyes come back up to her husband, and she smiles, heart filled with warmth and love in the midst of tears and sadness, his face worn and touched by time, but still so, so beautiful.

“River…” He takes a sharp breath, her name caught in his throat, as he gathers her face in his hands, waiting, unsure, trembling.

It reminds her of their first night on Darillium, the way he held her with the same trepidation, the same longing in his eyes. He’s her Doctor, her husband, the man she loves, the man he’s always been, his soul ancient and battered and magnificent.

Hand fluttering at his bowtie, she straightens it just like she always used to, before weaving her fingers through his grey-white hair, and pulling him close. He gives a soft gasp when their lips meet, but quickly recovers, kissing her with a desperation and passion that speaks of years of missing her. Sighing into her mouth, he smiles into the kiss, thumbs stroking her cheeks and wandering into her curls, as he tilts her head back in his hands. His lips are dry and creased with age, but he tastes the same as ever, like fish fingers and tweed and time. It’s another apology, about Manhattan, and she forgives him, and he forgives her, and for a few moments, they are one, in sync, he is not alone, and she is not a bittersweet dream.

He probably won’t remember this, won’t ever know that she came here, that she wasn’t just a figment of his memory, so she pours her heart and soul into his, love and thankfulness and contentment and joy, the joy he hasn’t given her yet, the joy that’s still ahead of him. She hopes that maybe some nights, when he dreams of her, he’ll dream of this kiss, and enjoy it, savor it, letting go of the guilt she knows he will still harbor for centuries to come, if only for a precious moment, locking it away somewhere in his hearts.

When he pulls back, there are tears shining in his eyes, but he looks peaceful, content, unburdened as he stares back at her.

His hands finally fall from her cheeks, instead moving to her chair to scoot her closer, till they’re side by side. Stretching his arm out in front of him, he picks up a single fish finger, snapping it into two, and dipping one half in the custard. Leaning toward her, he brings the custard-draped half to her mouth, placing the other half in her hand, which she puts to his mouth, and together, they take the first bite simultaneously, like a bride and groom eating cake on their wedding day. A smudge of custard douses her lips, and he wipes it away with his thumb as she giggles. And he kisses her again.

The tea is cold, like he suspected, but neither of them are particularly keen on moving, so she drinks it anyway, appreciating the thought.

They finish their little meal, and he wraps an arm around her, drawing her to his side like he always does, his jacket still draped around her form and warming her. Above them, the stars somehow shine more brightly.

“Look at the stars, my love.” She exhales, marveling at the sight.

“Reminds me of our wedding night.” He brushes a kiss to her curls and doesn’t take his eyes off of her.

“More stars in one sky than at any other moment in the history of the universe.” Eyes dancing, she remembers his excitement, his eagerness to whisk her away, all wavy hands and bright smiles, masking his nervousness. She recalls the sky that night, filled with millions and millions more stars than this one, like daylight only magic, he’d told her.

“Just as beautiful as that night,” her muses, wistful, his gaze still fixed on River.

“I’m not sure about _that_ , Sweetie—”

“I wasn’t talking about the stars.” His finger arches the curve of her chin, and he beckons her to look at him. “Do you know why I really took you there that night, River? It wasn’t to see the stars themselves, I could do that any old time. It was to see them in your eyes, to see your face, bathed in starlight, shining brighter and more beautiful than all of those stars combined.”

Pursing her lips, she takes a shaky breath, a blush creeping into her cheeks. She thinks of her own words, comparing him to the stars themselves, and yet, here he is, looking at her like she’s far more beautiful than a sky full of billions and billions of stars.

She wants to tell him he doesn’t have any idea whether she is beautiful or not, but she knows from the intensity of his gaze and the power of the truth field that he does.

“You sentimental idiot.” She declares, gazing back up at him, unable to hide the fond smile breaking across her face.

_I hate you._

“I love you.”

_No, you don’t._

“I love you too.”

And she knows he does.

Later that night, she knows it from the look of serenity on his old, time-ridden face as he sleeps fitfully, possibly for the first time in centuries, and holds her close, feeling safe, warm, and loved, no longer alone, if only for this fleeting moment in time.

 

* * *

 

Drowsy, with eyes half-lidded from sleep, the Doctor stirs, arms searching for the warm presence that had been beside him, only to find nothing but his worn, crumpled blanket. His hearts seize, and he opens his eyes, just to be sure, and finds his bed as empty as it is every morning.

For some reason, the pang of loneliness hits him harder than it usually does, leaving a gaping hole in his chest, with nothing to fill the void. His stomach drops, and he clenches his jaw, feeling a sense of nausea come over him, loathing himself for nearly believing the dream.

He presses his face into his thin pillow, clutching it firmly, his weary body convulsing into quiet sobs, as the realization of her loss rips through him again.

His lungs burn for air, his muscles aching all over and his joints blazing in pain. Everything hurts, his head, his chest, his back, his bad leg, his bones, his hearts. On mornings like these, he almost wishes that time would steal his life away from him once and for all, if only to stop the centuries of unfathomable agony that still await him before he finally dies of old age.

He sniffles, catching a whiff of something sweet and flowery—perfume, he realizes. And wants to bang his head against the nearest hard surface.

Because he recognizes the scent of his wife all too well.

_River._

Only she was never here, just some dream, some illusion he conjured up in his mind, so real and so vivid, he almost believed it.

Almost.

Now he must be losing his mind.

Just as well. It’s been approximately 8 centuries since he resolved to protect this planet and Tasha sealed it; he’s honestly surprised he’s lasted this long.

Forcing himself into an upright position, the Doctor swings his legs over the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, and swipes a hand over his face, grumbling.

He grabs his cane from the side of the bed, and after great effort, stands. And soldiers on, because he must.

It isn’t until he glimpses himself in the mirror that he notices the smudge of lipstick on his face. It’s faint but visible, and for a second, he allows himself to wonder if maybe she really had—

But no. It’s just his mind playing tricks on him again, he decides, the logical part of his brain superseding any vain hope that he has left.

The sight of his kitchen stocked with boxes of fish fingers when he could’ve sworn he’d used up his supply only further confirms his suspicions.

He really is just a senile old man.

 

* * *

 

Having arrived on Darillium only moments after she left, River enters the little house she and the Doctor share, her footsteps quiet and careful so as not to wake him.

She slips her boots off by the front door, and stalks down the corridor, pausing at the door to the bedroom, before gently nudging it open.

And discovers her husband propped up with his back against the bedframe, very much awake, his hand running through his tussled mop of grey hair, as he stares at her like a lost little boy again, fear and doubt flickering in those blue eyes. The same vulnerability she’d seen in his younger self only hours before.

“Doctor?” she questions, tucking herself under the covers beside him, her fingers brushing his arm.

He stiffens.

“Sweetie, what’s—”

“I woke up and you were gone.” His hoarse whisper cuts straight to her heart.

“I’m sorry, my love. I couldn’t sleep. I just went out for a drink of water—”

“Please, don’t. Don’t lie to me, River.” It’s not judgmental, just defeated, disheartened.

“How do you even…”

“You took your boots.” He nods to the place she’d sprawled them on the floor last night; it’s now empty.

“Maybe I just wanted to go for a walk.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Snorting, he shakes his head, a cynical smile folding across his face.

“How do you even—”

“I’ve barely seen you this week, what with all the researching you’ve been doing. There’s nothing wrong with that, of course, I know how much you love your work, and I wouldn’t want you to part from it, it’s just, you seemed a bit preoccupied, distant. I was going to ask you about it, figuring there must have been a perfectly reasonable explanation. Then I saw your Vortex Manipulator on the console…”

“Sweetie—”

“And I realized. You were planning on leaving. I hoped maybe it wasn’t that, that even if it were, you’d at least mention it. But then you didn’t, and I awoke to an empty bed, and I just knew, I had that sinking feeling in my gut, just like after Manhattan. And it’s all my fault, I probably buggered something up again…”

Releasing an exasperated sigh, River closes her eyes, hand on her forehead.

“Oh, you ridiculous old man. You really are a clueless idiot, aren’t you?” his eyebrows knit together, his face contorting into a confused frown, as he tries to decipher her tone. “Sweetie, if I was intending to leave permanently, why would I be back here, lying next to you, only seconds after I left?”

“Well, you…I don’t…”

“ _Doctor._ ”

“But you…I mean, if you didn’t, then why—”

“Hush now.” Cupping his cheek, she studies him, heart sinking at the dread flickering in those eyes. “Darling, hasn’t it ever occurred to you that not everything is your fault?”

“But I—”

“Sweetie, believe it or not, I’ve been enjoying these past few months immensely, and I will happily spend these next 24 years with you. I don’t want to miss a moment of our precious time together, my love.” Palm still resting on his wrinkled face, she watches his expression change, his brows crinkling in realization.

“Then where did you go?”

Breathing deeply, River urges him to look at her, hand weaving around his back, so that they are tucked against each other, side by side.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Of course.”

“Very, very sure?”

“Yes, what could possibly—” her index finger at his mouth silences him swiftly. She reaches up to caress his scalp, her fingers petting his curls. His eyes soften, silently searching hers for answers.

“First of all, just so you can stop with the self-loathing, I have loved every moment of the time I’ve spent with you here. And I wouldn’t trade it for the universe. But sometimes, Sweetie, on those mornings when you wake up crying in my arms because of the nightmares, I can hardly bear it. Because I think of all those mornings you must’ve woken up like that alone.” River confesses, voice wavering. “And when you told me about Trenzalore…I just couldn’t bear the thought of you having to go through that for so long. It broke my heart. So I decided to do something about it.”

His mouth fumbles open, but he doesn’t speak, his bewildered expression and crinkled brow conveying more than mere words.

“Tell me, Doctor, did you ever dream of me on Trenzalore?”

He bristles a bit at that, drawing in a sharp breath, eyes suddenly far away.

“Yes. Countless times.”

“Do you ever remember any specific aspects of those dreams?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just tell me.” She pleads, extricating her hand from his hair to settle back against his cheek. “Please?”

“It was a long time ago. But I dreamt of you many, many times throughout the centuries. There was one dream in particular that reoccurred quite often in the later years. I don’t remember all of it, just bits and pieces. But I think….you came to visit me. And I always knew I was dreaming, but sometimes I almost believed…you were really there. You would stay for the night, and we would have dinner under the stars and fall asleep together. And then I would wake up a bit hopeful, but always alone, with you nowhere in sight.” Swallowing, he tears his gaze away from her, eyes shimmering at the power of the memory. “It hardly matters now. I was just a senile old man, nothing more.”

“Or maybe you weren’t.” She waits for the words to sink in, carefully registering the subtle flex of the muscles on his face. “Fish fingers and custard and cold tea by candlelight?” River’s knowing smile leaves him pale and frozen, the gears of his mind whirring and spinning behind those impossibly old eyes.

“Yes, that’s…h-how did you know?”

“Oh, Sweetie. How do you think?”

It starts in his eyes, fluttering to the edges, and flares in those characteristic eyebrows, curving upwards, carried through the tilt of his head, the lines along his brow, his mouth, the crinkle of his nose, the quirk of his lips, gently parted.

“No. You didn’t.”

“I did.” She pats his chest, grinning slyly.

“But you can’t have. It’s impossible.”

“No, it’s not. It’s _almost_ completely impossible.” The memory of his face, young and certain, filled with hope and optimism, flashes in her mind, and she remembers how he spoke those words with such confidence, even bopping her nose.

“But you really…visited me? On Trenzalore?”

“Of course I did, Sweetie. Do you really think I could live with knowing you’d been there for all those years sad and alone? I told you, I had to do something about it.”

Multiple emotions dance across his face—surprise, relief, joy, gratefulness, followed by a tad of worry, disapproval.

“ _River…_ ” he reprimands.

“Don’t even start!”

“You can’t do things like that! What if I had realized it was really you? The entire universe could’ve imploded, our timelines could’ve unraveled—”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. It worked out fine. I knew you’d end up believing it was a dream anyway. And even if you knew it was me for a little while, I don’t think it would’ve mattered. What matters, Doctor, is that for one night, amidst thousands, you didn’t have to be alone.”

His body trembles beneath her touch, beneath the weight of her words. His eyes are wide and open and vulnerable, the uncertainty and the loss and the pain from a thousand years tangible, swelling in them.

He falters, expression molding into something unreadable, tight and collected.

“Oh, I see.” The Doctor quirks a brow at her.

“What?”

“I always knew you had a preference for Bowtie.”

Rolling her eyes, River groans, watching his face contort into a scowl.

“So what did he do? Trip over his shoelaces and pretend to be hurt so you’d kiss him all better? Slick his hair back to be smooth, even though he looked like an idiot? Straighten his stupid bowtie, thinking he was cool and impressive?”

“Oh, you are insufferable.” She snorts, hiding her face in his shoulder, her nose grazing his neck. “Honestly, Sweetie, jealous of _yourself?_ I think you’ve reached a new low.”

“But you do prefer him don’t you?”

“Stop talking about yourself in the third person! You sound ridiculous.”

“But you do, don’t you?”

“I do not.”

“Do too. I found a bowtie in your dressing gown the other day. You’re a sentimental sap for that me, and you always have been. Why do you think I was always so smug in that body?”

“Sweetie, I don’t have a preference, really. I told you, the reason I went to Trenzalore was for _you._ And your face has never made a bit of a difference to me. You’re the same ridiculous, egotistical, smug idiot with terrible dress sense. You think regeneration changes you, but it really doesn’t. Not your essence, your soul. You’re always the same man, and I love every version of you equally, because I love _you_. So will you stop being a jealous—”

Practically tackling her to the bed, he captures her in his arms, holding her close, smothering her unsuspecting lips with his, his hand drifting up her arm to her wild, untamable curls. Something warm and hot rumbles in her belly, and she melts, feeling him grin smugly against her mouth.

When they part, she’s still snug in his arms, and he’s giggling, his nose adorably crinkled, his smile so big and full of teeth it nearly steals her breath away. Those striking blue eyes are bright and fond and teasing, just as full of love and promise as they’d been that first night on the balcony, only now they’re even more certain, unbridled and free.

“I love you too, you impossible, insufferable, amazing, brilliant woman.” It’s raw and emotional, but sure, honest, from the bottom of his hearts, the intensity of his gaze never breaking hers. He brushes his nose to her nose, resting their foreheads together, his breath hot and ragged against her face. “And I’m going to make sure you know it every day for the rest of our happily ever after.”

And he kisses her again, sweetly, tenderly, pressing her up to that space between his hearts where she belongs.

Always and completely.

Forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading:) Have a wonderful day!


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